


Kansas

by withoutwords



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Cultural Differences, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutwords/pseuds/withoutwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The art of belonging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kansas

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Season 2, in the wake of ‘Runner’ but not episode related.
> 
> Also, I’m dedicating this to the scene in ‘Common Ground’ (read: worst thing ever) where everyone’s watching John get fed on and Ronon is the only one to get pissed off and look away. That says more about this pairing than I could in some three thousand words. Thank you, SGA :)

His first impression of Atlantis is _too much noise_. Idle chatter, clacking computers and a humming sound that Ronon spends a whole night searching for so that maybe he can switch it off. Or shoot it. He’s not sure there’s any one source though; he’s not sure it’s something that he can touch to conquer. He gives up, and he keeps giving up until he finally just agrees to stay on board.

Sheppard’s quiet in his victory and Ronon’s grateful.

*

Their first off-world mission that doesn’t involve defensive action is to a small, overgrown planet with a name that makes Sheppard laugh. The air is so thick Ronon can feel it clinging to his eyelashes, and the locals’ skin is so dark Ronon can barely see them.

“You shouldn’t stare,” Teyla says, which is stupid; people stare at _him_ all the time. “It makes people feel inadequate.”

“What’s that mean?” Ronon asks gruffly, as a beautiful woman with long braids like his steps up and smiles at him, teeth bright and perfect. Ronon feels his heart flutter, his hand stammering over his knife on impulse, and she reaches for a strand of his hair.

“It means they might think you look down on them. That you might think you are better than them.”

The woman is speaking to Ronon in a strange language, a singing-like lilt to her voice, pulling out some red, orange, yellow, green weaving and tying it into a dreadlock. Sheppard and McKay rejoin them, watching on in silence, while Ronon remains entranced.

“Why would she care what I think?” he asks as the woman bows and moves away, glancing at the others for an answer. Sheppard’s looking at him that way again, that way Ronon can’t interpret and chooses to ignore.

“No doubt she sees all that’s good in you,” Teyla says with a smile, and Ronon plays with the threading all the way back to Atlantis.

*

Ronon is not simple or single minded, not where it counts. McKay talks too much, and Teyla cares too much, and Sheppard thinks too much, thinks with his brow and his mouth and his jittery hands and Ronon doesn’t ask. All their words, and ideas, and thoughts; all their fears. When you’re buried in dirt for warmth and bleeding into your own mouth, and when you’re convinced you’re going to die and no-one is left to stand over your body.

Everything else just _doesn’t matter_.

“You gotta,” Sheppard says across the table, and Ronon looks at his knife and fork, he’s sure he’s using them properly. “You gotta – damn it.”

“Just say it,” Ronon grunts, considers putting his gun to ‘stun’ and forcing it out of him. These people seem to respond to that sort of persuasion.

“You gotta stop following me around. I mean,” he lowers his voice and glances around them. “When we’re on Atlantis. I’ve seen you.”

Ronon’s fork is half way to his mouth and he pauses, blinking at Sheppard. “I’m just doing my job.”

“That’s not your job.” Sheppard’s fingers are jittery again, drawing symbols into the tabletop unconsciously. His hands are pale and smooth and nothing like Ronon’s, but not weak and not incapable. Ronon’s hands recoil, rebel, and fight, but Sheppard’s hands know no bounds. “You don’t – you’re not responsible for me. I mean – we’re responsible for each other.”

Ronon considers that. Sheppard, Teyla, McKay, the team; he protects them in return for safe passage [no, Teyla explained that, safe _dwelling_ ]. It doesn’t make sense that they would protect him too. “Well, uh, you can follow me. If you want.”

The sound of Sheppard’s laughter is new and interesting. “How about we walk together?”

*

The mating rituals on Atlantis remind Ronon of the dancing on Sateda. Men and women and women and men and the repetition of their circles. It was pretty, and fun, but they never got anywhere, and Ronon never really got the hang of it. He liked pictures, and words, and things that had an ending, but dancing only stopped when people were tired. Ronon’s tired of watching that woman tuck her hair to one side and that man wink his eye. 

“When do people do fucking?” he asks Teyla when they are done sparring, re-hydrating by the door. Her eyes are wide and bright as if he’s frightened her so he hurries on. “I mean, they act like they want it and then they just walk away from each other.”

“It’s not as simple as that, Ronon,” Teyla says gently. “First two people will date, and get to know each other better. This can take some time.”

“Date?”

“Yes. A date is something two people do together. Have a meal, watch a movie – didn’t you have similar traditions on Sateda?”

“I guess. But it’s _easy_. You see someone, you tell them how you feel, you fuck.” Teyla winces at his use of the word. “Is fuck a bad word?”

“It’s uh – it’s _harsh_. Perhaps you could say, sleep together, or, _make love_.”

Sleep, love, fuck, none of it intersects, none of it makes sense. You fuck, and you sleep, and you can’t do both of them together. Love is another thing altogether. “Have you got any other words?”

“Well,” Teyla puffs out her cheeks. “There’s ‘sex’. Sex is another word for ...”

“Let’s do sex,” Ronon says, getting a feel for the words, and he doesn’t realise Sheppard’s there until he hears his winded voice, “Uh, what?”

Teyla hurries to explain, Sheppard’s looking a little sick and Ronon leaves them to their conversation. How can two race of people be speaking the same language, but saying such very different things?

*

McKay reminds Ronon of the rodents he used to hunt while on the run. Okay, so not quick and agile; but clever, and sneaky. On the surface they seemed to tremble in their boots, but really they were devising an escape plan. McKay was a great asset to have in battle; the only trouble was he liked to make sure they all knew. Ronon would be tempted to shoot him, were things different; he might not be hungry but it would at least stop the nattering.

“Cool it,” Sheppard orders, after Ronon has said something that apparently made McKay feel angry.

“You say those things to him all the time!” Ronon protests, and the weight of Sheppard’s hand on his shoulder as he pushes him out of the firing line is almost too much to bear. People touch to talk to him, and people touch to show concern, and touch, touch, touch, it makes Ronon’s head spin.

“Yeah, well, I’m his superior. _I’m_ allowed to.”

“Then why does he talk to _you_ like that?”

“It’s - ” Sheppard sighs and pulls Ronon around another corner. Ronon’s heard the term _McKay_ and _bat ears_ in a sentence more than once, and apparently Earth bats have good hearing. “We’ve been working together a long time. We have … familiarity. Didn’t you used to hassle your division, back on … back then?”

“Sure.”

“It’s like that. I call him a neurotic whack job, he calls me a reckless philanderer, and we all move on with the job. You get it?”

Ronon squints at him. “What’s a philanderer?”

“It’s …” Ronon can see a red flush starting to creep up Sheppard’s neck. He scratches at it, and ducks his head. “It’s someone who is really kind and generous, just stop baiting him _okay_?”

Ronon watches Sheppard lope away down the hall, throwing glances back over his shoulder to make sure Ronon’s not following.

*

Ronon has a routine. Teyla bought him a to-do list to hang on his wall, McKay shooting it a reproving look any time he came into Ronon’s quarters (which was about twice so far, to hurry him up) reminding Ronon he could make him something more _sophisticated_ , with an in-built alarm to remind him of upcoming events.

Ronon had ‘get up, shower, eat, fight the Wraith and sleep’ under pretty good control so he always declined.

Then Heightmeyer shows up at his door telling him he missed his appointment.

The appointment he didn’t make.

“Unfortunately it’s mandatory,” she explains politely, tucking a strand of hair behind her. “A condition of your … contract.”

“What do I have to talk about?” 

“Well, anything you like, really. Your past experiences, any trouble you are having, how things are going on Atlantis. It’s completely confidential, no-one will know.”

“So it’s like talking to a friend.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Ronon raises his brow at her. Purses his lips. He knows that any way he handles this he’ll manage to insult her. “Except you’re not my friend.”

Yeah, she’s insulted. “Well, not officially I suppose, but for the sake of your progress we can pretend that I am.”

“I’ll come to the appointment,” he says, as if he has any say so. “But you can’t make me talk.”

Heightmeyer bites on her lip, like Melena used to when she was trying not to growl at him. Ronon had always found it endearing. “If you can’t talk to me, hopefully you have someone you can talk to,” she says gently, and Ronon almost feels guilty.

Maybe he’ll tell her about how Melena wanted to become a councillor, and how Ronon thinks her and Heightmeyer would have been friends. Only, that’s a whole universe away and nothing Ronon can change.

He doesn’t get the point. 

*

Ronon recalls snippets of peace. His mother’s soft voice as she knitted his hair; his friends laughing cries as they played their battle games; Marlena curled around him while he moved inside her. The funny thing about peace is you don’t know you have it until it’s gone; coveted and yet intangible. 

These people want to have peace but it’s not something you can take and hold onto, not something you _possess_. 

“Ronon,” Teyla has a hand on Ronon’s shoulder while he presses a slimy, quivering man against a wall. “He has provided us with significant intel, and we gave him our word that we would let him go.”

“Why?” Ronon asks, sneering in the man’s face. “If _he_ had the gun he’d kill us both right now.”

“Yes, and that is what separates us from evil.”

Ronon would like to ask if that’s how she sees him. Evil, because he would kill a man threatening his people. Evil, because he led Wraith to innocent villages when there was a chip in his back and no way of turning around. Evil, because he survived.

He doesn’t ask. “You’re just lucky she’s here,” he says instead, stuns the man and leads her back to the others.

Later, Teyla sits beside him at dinner and Sheppard sits across. Teyla passes him her cake and pie and doesn’t bat an eye when he picks it up with his fingers. McKay sits down next to Sheppard, and throws an orange on Ronon’s tray while ranting about _how long have I been on Atlantis_ and _how many times do I have to tell these people_ , and.

Sheppard’s looking at Ronon that away again and Ronon looks back. He feels something like peace.

*

Ronon had fought alongside women before. A small few, admittedly; and only the ones with nothing to lose but their pride. The ones who gave him a mad look, just daring him to suggest they weren’t cut out for it. Ronon was surprised by Teyla, but it was Weir who altogether confused him. Women were revered on Sateda, too, but never welcomed as military leaders. At war time they provided comfort, not commands.

“You think I’m … soft,” Weir says across her desk, having pulled Ronon in for something she called _culpable behaviour_. 

“I think everyone here is soft,” Ronon tells her.

Weir recrosses her hands in front of her, her mouth doing that twisting thing Sheppard’s does sometimes. Maybe it was an Earth thing. “You think because I’m a woman - ”

“You can read my mind now?”

“What were the roles of the women on Sateda? Teaching? Providing meals? Nursing?”

With just one word Ronon flies out of his seat, bearing down on her. To her credit, Weir looks over his sneer with something close to concern. Concern for _Ronon_. “I’m not talking about this. Punish me and let me go.”

“I wasn’t going to punish you, Ronon. I just wanted to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Elizabeth.” Sheppard comes into the room with a faster stride than normal, and Ronon feels himself stepping back, Sheppard’s arm brushing his. “What’s going on here?”

Weir gets out of her seat, unperturbed. “I had to speak to Ronon regarding his behaviour - ”

“His _behaviour_? Since when is that your call, you know I - ”

“Sheppard,” Ronon says, because he gets it now, how their planets aren’t so different. It’s just that _here_ command and comfort aren’t mutually exclusive things. “Forget it.”

Ronon glances at Weir, and nods, before heading back to his quarters.

*

They throw a party for someone’s birthday, a soft little man Ronon hasn’t met. He’s blushing so much his balding head looks on fire, and there’s frosting on his nose from eating cake. Ronon collapses against a table, next to Sheppard, and says,

“If you’re celebrating him, why is he embarrassed?” 

“Some people don’t like all the attention.”

Ronon considers how McKay would handle it, but bites his tongue. “When’s your birthday?”

“According to the database, I don’t have one.”

“Why?”

Sheppard looks at Ronon with his mouth twisted at one end. He seems to fold his arms a little tighter. “I don’t like the attention.”

“From everyone or … anyone?”

Sheppard regards Ronon with heavy eyelids, sweeping his gaze up from Ronon’s waist. In Atlantis, people have come to look at Ronon for few reasons. Duty, fear … attraction. Sheppard looks at him like he’s struggling with all three and probably more, and Ronon’s tried to respect their traditions but he’s done now.

“You want to go back to my quarters?”

Sheppard pushes quickly off the table, stumbling a little. “Whoah, I thought we were talking about birthdays?”

“With our mouths, sure, but you were saying other things with your eyes.”

“ _Ronon_.”

“I thought you were a man of action,” Ronon hisses unfairly, crowding Sheppard just enough, watching the sharpening colours of his eyes. If Sheppard should give him anything, it’s honesty. “But you’re just like all these people, just dancing around, scared, when all you should be scared of is dying alone.”

“I’m not alone,” John grates out, hand hovering at his side arm and his head down. Ronon presses a hand to his chest, says,

“No, you’re not,” and pushes him out of the way.

*

That morning they had told Ronon they were gating over to M7G-677 as standard operation – the four of them taking Beckett to check up on the kids. It took half an hour and a broken packet of crayons to end up bunkered behind a cluster of trees and Sheppard bleeding from his belly. Ronon’s _pissed off_.

“Where I come from, standard operation means _no guns_ ,” he yells, rounding the tree to fire off a few shots. The returning ones are miles off their target and sloppy, Ronon knows they’re not dealing with experts here.

“Yeah, buddy, keep bitchin’,” Sheppard says around a cough, and he’s pale with a blue tinge now, saliva congealing at the corners of his mouth. “That helps.”

“You look like …”

“I feel like …” Sheppard scrabbles for his radio, Lorne’s voice crackling through to tell them they’re on their way. Apparently the others got back to the Gate as planned. “Roger that, holding our position.”

Ronon can’t help but snort, getting back down to look over Sheppard’s makeshift dressing. If they have a choice but to stay where they are, he won’t risk moving Sheppard anyway. “Maybe I can - ”

“Are you _crazy_? Get back on guard. _Now_.”

Ronon pulls a face to show he’s not happy, but follows the order anyway. The shooters – Sheppard thinks they’re disgruntled rogues, unhappy with Atlantis’ presence here – aren’t gaining any ground. They hadn’t pointed their guns anywhere near the locals, though, and he thinks Sheppard takes some solace in that.

“Stop watching me!”

“You’re bleeding out!” Ronon protests, and what does Sheppard expect?

“Keep them back, or next time the bullet will be in my head!”

The shouting dissolves into coughing, and there’s blood everywhere and Ronon can’t handle it any more. He roars so loud he’s sure the rogues can hear him, and picks Sheppard up, ignoring his protests. It’s a liberating sort of tunnel vision, moving through the overgrowth and shooting to kill, and the warm weight of Sheppard’s body and blood is enough to spur him on.

By the time he reaches the rescue team he has a nick to his arm from a lucky bullet, and scrapes anywhere his skin is not covered. Someone tries to take Sheppard, let Ronon rest, but he hisses and spits and walks on.

He doesn’t put Sheppard down until they reach the infirmary.

*

Ronon touches the walls with his fingertips, when he runs, like markers. He rests his head on cool surfaces and curls in corners when he’s alone and connects. He knows Atlantis will be home one day, if it isn’t already, and maybe it doesn’t pulse in his blood like Sateda, crack in his bones, but it’s in there somewhere. Warm.

He doesn’t want to wake up unprepared one day, finding that it’s over. He doesn’t want to be lulled like he knows all these people are, he doesn’t want to believe he could have peace.

But he doesn’t want to run any more, either.

“Ding Dong,” Sheppard says when Ronon opens the door for him, and Ronon just steps to one side. Sheppard is still a little pale at the edges, and dark under his eyes, and Ronon wonders if Beckett is going to come looking for him. He closes the door.

“Should you be in bed?”

Sheppard shrugs. “Probably, but …” he glances around as if he hasn’t seen the inside of Ronon’s room a dozen times. More. “I hear you rescued me.”

“I helped. Why, you here to yell at me?”

“Hey now, would I …” Sheppard trails off because he knows he would. “Well, anyway … thanks.”

“Sure.” Ronon puts the wood he was carving down, folding his arms. “Just doing my job.”

“I know.”

Sheppard starts to walk over but stops in the middle and Ronon figures he can meet him half way. They stand within a feet of each other, sharp breaths like there’s a leak in the ventilation. Ronon feels hot and cold and everything. “You doing this?”

“We,” Sheppard corrects, “We’re doing this.”

Ronon offers his mouth, down, to press against Sheppard’s, pulls him in when Sheppard’s thumb plays at Ronon’s mark. Later Sheppard will talk to him about the rules, about how some things are not done, but all Ronon will hear is _we’re doing this anyway_.

The wet heat of Sheppard’s mouth and the welcome spread of his legs when Ronon guides him gently down onto the bed. Unlike peace, he can grab onto this with two hands and _know it_. He knows he belongs.


End file.
